Perspective
by Magick
Summary: When Fandral opened his eyes, the Valkyrie was the first person he saw. And suddenly, he realized that things were more dire than he realized. Being thought dead gives a man some perspective on the people he is leaving behind.


_Hello my lovelies! This is set after the first Avengers movie, but pre Thor: Dark World, so Loki is still in prison._

 _This fic has been re-uploaded, as ff.n glitched massively during the first upload. So sorry for anyone who tried to read it before!_

 _..._

It was not the first time Fandral had tasted the bitterness of a Jotun blade. The wicked lance of sickly blue ice shattered against the jagged, vertical rocks as he plummeted towards the churning, white-capped torrents of the river below. In an instant, bile scored in the back of his throat, the pain sending a wave of black spots to dance in his sights.

With a deadly splash Fandral struck the water, his hands clutched over the ragged, broken remains of the Jotun blade that still drove through his side. And in an instant, his broken body was swept beneath the surface, overcome by the vicious current.

The world flickered for an instant behind his eyelids, and Fandral the Dashing knew no more.

It was impossible to say how far the river had carried him, or how long he had been unconscious, when the agonies of the physical world reasserted themselves. Dragging him from the merciful realm of nothingness, to a body that felt battered beyond endurance.

"By the Norn.." Fandral tried to whisper, his cracked lips caked with his own blood; every breath brought fresh agony, and the taste of new copper at the back of his tongue. "The next time, I shall find the stairs." He added, just for the defiant pleasure of speaking. Though every fibre of his being throbbed with pain, he clung to that; the feeling of being, despite all odds, quite obviously alive.

As he tried to take stock of his surroundings; the riverside, and endless trees, apparently; Fandral tried to decide of being alive was, in fact, a blessing. Before he could decide, the darkness descended once more, carrying him into oblivion.

It was some hours later that Fandral struggled to wakefulness once more. His mind swam with a feverish haze, a fire pounding like a great drum beneath his temples. His side still froze, fragments of Jotun cruelty renting flesh and muscles; lifting his blonde head from the stony shore, Fandral looked down at his side.

His once green tunic was tattered, the material plastered to the wound beneath. Feverishly he blinked, glassy eyed, at the hideous mess. The Jotun had clearly done his very best to see Fandral off to Valhalla.

 _You've more than proven your bravery, Warrior…_

 _Now, let us take away your pain…_

Despite the pain, though it flashed red hot through his veins, Fandral struggled to his knees, hands clutched against his weeping wound. Looking up, his body swaying with the effort of staying conscious, Fandral beheld the two women who had come to relieve him of his troubles.

They were beautiful, and terrible. Grey wings rustled in the night breeze, and their eyes- oh gods, their eyes- seemed to sever the darkness around them. Their armour gleamed in the starlight, and in that moment he knew, there was a place at the Great Table awaiting him.

A place in the halls of his forefathers; where the mead flowed freely and sweetly, and the tales were epic yarns, from the lips of the heroes themselves. It was a tempting offer, a promise to steal away the pain that assaulted him, the Jotun steel that pricked his lungs with every breath, and reminded him of the agony of living.

A perhaps, he thought, it would be a better thing. Every day in Asgard was a reminder that his lover was a prisoner in the labyrinth of cells beneath their feet, and that the man who had returned from Midgard was not the Loki who had fallen from the Rainbow Bridge. A life away from the reality of Loki's villainy, and his own heart still turned traitor in his chest.

Was he ready to give up his last hope? Death would be final, his life extinguished and his tales added to the heroes of the Aesir before him. Was the pain of Loki's betrayal truly stronger than his stubborn hope that things would, in time, turn good again?

"Nay, ladies, I thank you... But I must decline."

With blood stained lips, and a damp catch in his breathing, Fandral nodded his head to them, the world sliding sickly sideways on its axis as he moved. With a tense grunt, he pressed his hands more securely against his side, struggling to find his feet.

The terror of their presence was colder than Jotun ice; it propelled him against the agony that turned his muscles to water, and his bones to brittle dross. "I have.. People.. Waiting for my return."

And Fandral slid one foot beneath him, his knees buckled. With a hoarse moan, he fell to the ground, elbow striking the river rocks and numbing his arms to the tips of his fingers. Gasping in agony, his breath rasping through clenched teeth, Fandral watched the Valkyrie, his cheek pressed against the cold stones.

 _They do not…_

 _Soon the mead hall will ring with tales of your valour…_

 _Come with us…_

 _You need not suffer any more._

Splayed on the river bank, Fandral lacked the strength to stand. He knew not where he was, nor how to return to Asgard. Shuddering with fever and pain, he could feel the heat of his own blood as it seeped through his fingers. With defiant effort, he tried to roll his shoulder beneath him for leverage, but the exertion brought the darkness swimming in his vision once more.

 _It is time, Warrior…_

 _Be not a fool…_

 _Your place awaits you._

"Fool?" An airless laugh escaped his lips, as Fandral turned his cheek again the stones, looking up at the Valkyrie that loomed over his body. But in the absence behind his eyelids, he could remember; through the blood that rushed in his ears, there was a voice. "I have been many, many times called a fool… That name holds no pain for me." He whispered, gasping at the air he needed to speak.

The Valkyrie started, their expressions darkening as they watched. Their beautiful faces twisting in a fury at his words, their gaze piercing his skin like a tangible touch.

 _Come now._

Their voices hissed in his ears, reverberating inside the feverish hollow of his skull.

 _Come now, or die here._

 _And be lost._

 _Forever._

Squeezing his eyes shut, Fandral rolled against his shoulder, elbow braced against the unyielding rocks. "I am not ready to die… Not here, not this day. I will take my chances with the Lands of the Lost; better that, than knowing I did not try. To my last breath, if need be."

 _So be it._

Fandral managed a smile as they abandoned him; of gallows optimism, as he slowly, painstakingly, tried to stand once more.

He would follow the river.

"I will not be defeated by a Jotun.. Or a Valkyrie… Or however miles this damned river runs..." He whispered to himself as he struggled, "I will survive this. I will.. I will... See him again."


End file.
